Pity
by Flame Tigress
Summary: Frodo's thoughts about Gollum and the pity of Bilbo on which the world's fate may rest, and Gollum's thoughts about Frodo when he sees Frodo and Sam asleep in Mordor.


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Disclaimer: Tolkien made up the messed-up characters and Gollum's really cool manner of speaking. It's so cool that several hours after writing this, I was still thinking with myself as "we," conjugating all verbs in the third person, and inserting a "precious" in my thoughts every now and then. Have you ever noticed how everyone now describes Frodo with dark hair and huge blue eyes even if they're writing primarily based on the books? Does anyone give credit in their disclaimers to Elijah Wood's parents for donating that particular set of chromosomes?

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Author's Note: What's funny about this story is that I started it on March 11 and finished it on March 13. For those of you who don't have very quick access to a copy of _The Return of the King_ with its abundant appendices and a timeline in there somewhere, or aren't insane maniacs who memorize the date of every last occurrence in _The Lord of the Rings,_ March 11 is the date on which this story is set – the cute moment when Gollum sees Frodo and Sam asleep and almost repents (and had better be in the movie of _The Two Towers _because it's so sweet and with the music and Elijah Wood's adorably heartstring-tugging suffering facial expressions, it'll have the entire audience groping for Kleenex) and March 13 is the date when Shelob attacks them in the tunnel of the pass of Cirith Ungol, making Gollum's plan of betrayal complete. FYI, it's also an important date in a story I wrote called "'Samwise Gamgee and the Ring'" (advertising? Who, me? No…) Anyway, _this is not supposed to sound slashy. _If it does towards the end, try to focus on the phrase "love like brothers." _Brothers._

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Pity

Though long ago I said that it was a pity Bilbo didn't stab the vile creature – meaning Gollum – when he had the chance, I understand now the Pity that stayed his hand. Gandalf, I believe, was right in saying that Gollum had a part to play before the end, for he is very useful as a guide, and without him Sam and I would have long ago been lost in the rocky labyrinths of Emyn Muil or the treacherous Dead Marshes. He is a strange, primitive, savage beast, and it is difficult at most times to imagine him as anything like a hobbit, though he once was. It would seem that Sméagol is a creature entirely of darkness, for he shrinks from sunlight and even moonlight, fearing the Faces of luminous benevolence and clinging to the shadow and shelter of sunless caves. But there is something strange about him that defies categorization as Evil or Good; it seems that there is the smallest of attributes left from when he was a being near a hobbit, for he exhibits loyalty, concern, even kindness, at times.

Gollum is an odd creature – thin, wasted, his skin rotted, filthy, and sallow from centuries without sun; but he has a sort of grace about him. It is a mockery of Elven grace such as Legolas possesses, but it is grace nonetheless – the agility of one accustomed to sneaking around and hiding, a precision of movement that allows travel on the most uneven of surfaces, and silence in his footsteps. He creeps like a spider or a tree frog, not like anything remotely human, for physical remnants of humanity have been lost long ago. Deep are the changes the Ring have effected on what once was Sméagol, for though it is in his mind that the changes of the Ring were directly made, his fear of light and his wasted form are the product of his reclusive habits, caused by the distrust that was planted in his heart by the Ring.

Gollum is a slave to the Ring; he loves it and hates it, Gandalf said, as he loves and hates himself. He stays with me, fawning on me, protecting me, calling me "Master," no doubt only because I have his "precious" and he cannot bear to be far from it. He needs it and hungers for it, and he bides his time waiting for an opportunity to take it when it is so close to his grasping fingers. Yet I wonder sometimes if anything is left in his small, closed, corrupted heart from younger days when he was innocent and curious; I wonder if any of his service to me is from genuine concern or loyalty, or just treacherous scheming whose ends I cannot yet discern. I wonder if any of it is not for the Ring, but truly for me.

I might have no reason to trust that his treachery does not extend to me, though he calls me "Master" and seems to serve me faithfully, but nor does he have any reason to trust me. I told him to "trust Master" even as I revealed his presence to Men's justice; "trust me," I told him, even as I betrayed him. He did not understand that I was trying to save his life, for Faramir's men would have shot him without a second thought had I not spoken for him. He does not understand, and though I know the truth, that means nothing, for Gollum may never really trust me again.

I could stab the vile creature, if I wished; and I know that Sam's hands itch to. Sam has nothing in his heart but our best interests – especially mine, to be honest – but somehow I cannot put unproven fear for my life ahead of any other being's life. I cannot kill Sméagol, because I harbor in my heart the same hope Gandalf once voiced that perhaps Gollum is not beyond reform. His wretchedness tugs at my soul; I can never fully understand the pain he constantly feels, the hunger and yearning, but my own experience carrying the Ring has taught me some understanding. Even before I set out on the Quest, before I was forced to constantly carry the thing around my neck like a pretty, delicate, golden and silver shackle, I could not bring myself to do harm to the Ring, though I knew it was evil and loathed the thought of it. I know that Gollum's fear and treachery is not fully his fault, that the inherent evil of the Ring corrupted and ruined him even as he allowed himself to be corrupted and ruined by greed and mistrust, and I pray that because of this, Gollum's affliction of evil is not so deeply-rooted that it cannot be cured.

I could not find it in my heart to kill Gollum because I do not feel with such conviction, now that I have come to know him, that he deserves it. I know that he hurts as well as hurting others. Like Bilbo, I have come to pity Gollum, and Pity as well as dependence stays my hand. Perhaps my pity will dictate the fate of the world.

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She is waiting. She will eat nasty hobbitses when we brings them to Her, yes, precious. We doesn't like nasty hobbitses, because they doesn't like us. Good Sméagol does everything they asks of him; we hates the Yellow Face and the White Face, yes, we does, precious, but we are forced to look at them. We hates the nasty hobbitses' food, and we never gets a chance to go get food to fill our own poor stomach. But good Sméagol obeys mean, cruel hobbitses. They doesn't like us, they doesn't trust us, they doesn't thank us.

No – Master says "Thank you." Other nasty hobbits doesn't thank us. It hates us, we knows it. Master says "Thank you" and calls us by our name, our real name – Sméagol. But Master also betrays us, and has nasty Men come catch us when we was doing nothing but fishing, precious, just looking for food to tide our poor stomach over. It says it was protecting us, says it saved our life, yes, nasty, tricksy hobbits. We spits on it, we hates it…but it says it won't let Men harm us. It says they'll have to kill it too. It says it'll take us under its protection, precious, and then Men won't kill us to death – under its protection! We protects hobbitses, we guides hobbitses, we obeys them, too, for Precious. Precious will get angry, says Master, if we isn't good. We swore by the Precious that we would not give it away to the Nameless One. We wouldn't do that, precious, no – we wants it for ourselves. Precious taunts us when we sees it hanging there on Master's breast, we can't get it, precious, we hungers and hurts for it, we hates the hunger but loves Precious. Master taunts us with it, too, and then betrays us. Rude hobbits treats us like dirt, but Master betrays us and tells us "trust Master" as it does.

But it looks sorry, it does; its eyes are sad.

Its eyes are always sad. It hates the Precious, Precious hurts it, but it won't give Precious to Sméagol. We can't take Precious, we swore by the Precious we wouldn't, so She must eat nasty hobbitses and then Precious will be ours.

Master is sleeping when we comes back. Rude hobbits was guarding it, it looks like, but it is asleep too. Sméagol must protect hobbitses, stupid hobbitses, they doesn't know what they is doing…

Master looks sad even when it is sleeping, but not so sad as when awake. It looks almost – peaceful, like it hurts, but what is hurting it is far away. It always hurts. Its face is not smooth and placid and untroubled when it's sleeping, but its bad dreams is not as bad as waking. Its friend is cradling it, precious, with one hand on its forehead and the other on its breast, like stroking it.

We could kill them now, we could, precious, and we wants to…but we also wants to hold Master and protect it, and rest our hands on its brow and breast, and stroke it and warm it and comfort it. We wants that kind of love the hobbitses share – not like our love for the Precious, which Precious doesn't and can't return, which hurts us but won't go away – the love like brothers, or like two people we used to know named Déagol and Sméagol. We wants to share that love with Master, or with anyone. Even rude, mean, nasty hobbits looks peaceful, sad, beautiful when it sleeps against the rock with Master's head cradled in its lap like that. What's hobbits's name? Samwise, Master calls it.

And _Baggins…_Frodo Baggins. Not the other, tricksy thief Baggins – but tricksy, sometimes, and thief, it seems like sometimes. We hates it sometimes, and wishes we could love it sometimes…wishes we could touch its pale face, its dark hair, and know it loves us like it loves Samwise. We envies it, too. We wishes we could kill it and take Precious, sometimes, too. And sometimes, when we sees that it hurts, and can't walk and can't go on, and can barely swallow and can't even say how much it hurts…like now, when we wants to be near it like this and stroke its hair and stop its hurt…

Sometimes I pity him.


End file.
